


a little bit of fear feels good (when i'm with you)

by peaflower



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:21:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27311809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peaflower/pseuds/peaflower
Summary: Wakatoshi knows this with certainty: somewhere, somehow, there's a version of them that end up together.There, Oikawa would smile up at him, and he would smile back, content.They would be happy.Things are a little different here.(all the ways oikawa and ushijima fall in love - in another life, another universe, if only things had been different; aka a dumpster collection of song-inspired drabbles)
Relationships: Oikawa Tooru/Ushijima Wakatoshi
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	1. i know you know we know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are people you never forget, even when they leave. Sometimes it takes the world ending to bring them back to you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ngl this is very dramatic and cringey upon further inspection but embarrassment is a superpower so i'm embracing it
> 
> (also there is a very brief, literal one word allusion to sex at the end but still if you wanna skip that it's in the second sentence of the last paragraph.)

The earth shakes, cracks and fissures running down the ground he walks. He feels it under his feet, the beginning of the end, and all around him there are screams of panic and fright, but all he feels is a cold, cold regret. It is a thick lump in his throat, hard to swallow. He stops in his tracks.

_Tooru._

He lifts his head up to the horizon. The sky is stripped of blue, red casting ominous shadows behind him. It bathes the landscape in a ghastly glow, and it could almost be described as beautiful, as beautiful as any apocalypse could be.

_Where are you?_

In front of him, mothers clutch their children’s hands tighter, lovers hold each other closer. It is an assurance. _I am here, do not be afraid_. They walk with hurried steps, heading towards a home where the walls will hide the shaky exhales preceding kisses pressed against cheeks, the desperate murmurs of “I love you; I love you; I love you.” He isn’t here, and Wakatoshi can’t help the fear simmering in his gut.

_I still love you._

*

He pushes the door open with too much strength, uncaring of the way the wood slams unforgivingly against the wall. He kicks it close with the heel of his boot, sinking down onto the floor. Loud, every sound loud and muffled all at once as if he’s been plunged headfirst underwater. It leaves him dizzy. His breaths leave his mouth out too shallow, too fast.

_“Don’t forget about me, ever. Don’t you dare.”_

Was that the last of them? He thinks of the only boy he’s ever loved and all he sees is a strong back, a pair of shoulders carrying the weight of the world. Except the world is ending, and soon there will be nothing to carry.

_Turn around. Look at me again. Turn around._

He’s afraid of forgetting how those eyes burn, the way they used to set his whole being aflame. He’s afraid of never finding out how they look now with the years gone by etched into skin, crinkling the corners.

_Come back to me. Come back._

They’re running out of time, and the world waits for no one.

* * *

“Hey there, stranger.” A smile. A genuine one that reaches his eyes and Wakatoshi finally gets to see it: the tiny wrinkles running across the delicate skin like fault lines. When he holds his gaze, the earth shakes for the second time.

_You’re here, and I’m not afraid._

He’s never forgotten about this boy. He hasn’t dared.

_The grip on his jacket is unrelenting, raw power in the shape of a fist. There is a harsh tug and he’s stumbling forward with the force of it. But then their foreheads are touching and there is skin against skin, soft. Lips graze his but there is neither heat nor pressure. This isn’t a kiss. This is them breathing into each other. This is Tooru pouring oxygen into his greedy lungs. There are no teeth or tongues, only Tooru changing the composition of the air as he knows it. He pulls away and offers no parting words as he walks out of Wakatoshi’s life, chasing the horizon at the other side of the earth. Wakatoshi stares at his back, knows every inhale from this moment on will never feel quite the same._

He wraps his fingers around Tooru's wrist (tanner, thicker) and he’s tugging him in while his other hand slams the door shut. He shoves him against plaster, can’t help the twitch of his lips when he notices he still stands taller. Their hands wander, exploring skin with the wonder of idle daydreams come true. They press into each other, needing to be close, needing touch to remedy years and miles of distance. Their limbs collide gracelessly, their eagerness making their movements clumsy. But it's okay because it's real and that makes it perfect. It’s everything he’s ever wanted.

He feels like a teenager again, and the thought makes him laugh. Tooru is laughing too, giggles jostling his body and making him lean further into him. The sound is bright, chiming like bells in his apartment. His home.

He lifts his head from the crook of Tooru's neck, taking in the sight before him.

 _Here he is, here is your heart and his eyes burn still, brighter than the meteor hurtling towards earth_.

_Here you are, in his arms, home at last._

His breath comes out in a shaky exhale.

"Tooru." It's all he can say.

Tooru's cheeks are rounded out from the force of his smile - so wide it puts his teeth on proud display. He’s effervescent.

He cups them with his palms, heart full. "I love you," A kiss on one cheek. "I love you," The other cheek. "I love you."

Fingers curl around the collar of his shirt; tugging firmly. The smile on his face is indulgent, nostalgic; they've done this before.

"I know."

They come together in the press of lips, heat and pressure he wants to drown in. He sighs into Tooru's mouth; thinks _you're so lovely I could not have conjured you even in dreams._ The sound of teeth clacking together snaps him out of his daze, and it is only then when he feels the stretch of his own lips around a splitting grin. This is a kiss, and this is lessons learnt and scars healed. This is the horizons enveloping around them in the easy reach of fingertips. This is the boy who left him; the man who came back. This is him drawing breath from Tooru’s mouth and finally, finally, his lungs fill again.

"I love you, too."

*

They should drive out of the city and lie under the stars, blow all their savings on overpriced champagne and sip it as they soak in a rose-scented bath. They should retire to the bedroom and fuck until the ground swallows them up along with everyone they know - any last reminder that they’re still alive, that they lived before the world collapses in on itself. But they’re lying on the carpeted floor and Tooru’s head is pillowed on his chest, fingers drumming the steady beat of Wakatoshi’s heart where they rest against his waist. Soft brown hair tickles his jaw and when he breathes deeply, there is the scent of Tooru’s lavender shampoo filling his entirety with sticky warmth. So, they don’t need grandiose gestures of romance. Because he’s happy, he’s so, so happy, and if the ground beneath them shakes as the clock ticks, neither of them say a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote this while listening to if the world was ending by jp saxe and julia michaels so that was the general premise but it wasn't super enforced. i left out a lot of details for interpretation so maybe it's a little confusing? idk
> 
> [talk to me on twitter!](https://twitter.com/caliwaizumi)


	2. and you probably will never know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Serendipity, Wakatoshi learns, is a death sentence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> light angst in this chapter and no happy ending. read at your own discretion!

“Ushiwaka?” 

Serendipity, Wakatoshi learns, is a death sentence. There are too many memories in a sound, too many feelings in a question. 

He almost laughs, manic, because maybe it’s a little tragic that he recognises the owner of the voice by its timbre rather than that ridiculous nickname. Maybe it’s a little tragic when the beat of his heart stops, falters, accelerates - motions from another decade so familiar he aches with it. 

When he turns on his heel, it’s with a dread that fills his entire body - slowly, thickly, like honey trickling down the sides of the jar when it’s overturned. His throat is coated with it, sticky viscosity sealing it shut. Because he’s a creature of habit, because he doesn’t forget, because his father told him once about an ace with absolute reliability, but he never mentioned the setter with the unquestioning, unmerciful trust. 

Honey. Honey in the kiss of sun against skin. Honey in the warmth of eyes too bright. Honey in soft curls spun from gold, the laurels of a king.

They’re bathing in it; they’re timeless in the golden afternoon.

For a single moment, he pretends this is how they’ve always been, how they’ve never been. Honey trickling down the sides of the jar; sand sliding up the curve of the hourglass, time undone. He looks at the man before him, a stranger. Taller, broader, stronger. Hair shorter, eyes softer, smile kinder. His breath catches, stuck in the amber lacquer, and it’s like the first time. He falls in love with a boy, again (anew), as the earth resumes its orbit. But his world narrows to a singularity in the middle of the bustling coffee shop and the soundtrack plays in the clack of mugs against wooden tables, the shout of coffee orders over the counter. The world is them, him and the boy with honey in his veins.

They exchange pleasantries and the past is washed down with their lattes, sugary sweet as it goes down his throat. They sit on plush armchairs and the boy across him regales him with tales of a foreign land rich with sun, painted blue and white, and he’s struck by the realisation that this is what he’d wanted. All those years ago, and the years after that when he had watched him dominate the court he was born to rule through the square of the television. That smile, brilliant then through the screen, blinding now before him. A new beginning. 

Honey. Honey in the lift of his lips when the phone on the table lights up with a name. Honey in the discrete tilt of his body as he picks it up, the cup of his hand over the device. Honey in the soft murmur of words meant for another. An ending.

They’re the same thing after all. 

He stands up and slips his phone into his pocket, excusing himself with a sweet smile and a sweeter whisper of goodbye - that same haunting timbre. Suddenly it’s cloying, the nectar clinging to his throat. It trickles slowly, down down down and into his chest, his lungs, his stomach, and the butterflies drown. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inspired by all these years by camila cabello. i'm not very good with angst so this was more for practice but i hope it was okay still!!


	3. watch me as i disappear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His story doesn't matter. He's just another boy, a boy in a crown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> before you read this, please take note that the oikawa pov here contains unkind, intrusive, thoughts about self-worth. if you're not in a good headspace to read that kind of thing then please skip, take care! :)

" _Do you love me?_ "

" _I worship you._ "

The lie is a puff of warm breath against his skin, and it feels good. 

Ushijima looks at him with raw hunger in his eyes, like there is no one else he could possibly want, no one else he sees. When Oikawa returns his gaze, it is his own reflection that stares back at him. He is gilded in the gold of those irises; he is royalty, king. But then there are the whites of Ushijima's eyes, encompassing gold. White is innocence, purity, goodness. Oikawa sees it for what it really is: fable. He’s just a boy in a crown, and the weight of it is heavy on his skull. He knows it will crush him one day, and he will be no more. 

*

He sees it everywhere, in his jersey, in Ushijima’s, the pallor of his own skin, the clouds he stands under, the lines he stands inside of. Everything is a lie (White. White. White. Thin white lies that tell him he is enough, he will make it, and it feels good, until it doesn't.) and he is in the centre of it all. He tries; sharpens his nails into claws to rip the wretched lines apart, break free, but they are mangled and bloody when he lifts them up to his face, and he knows the only damage he has inflicted is hidden within. Within, he is rotting flesh - deep crimson and acrid. Under ivory bone, he's scratched up, wounds gaping and left to fester where no one can see. He’s perfect; he's trapped and so, so tired. 

*

Once, Iwaizumi had told him he was blue. Blue like outer space where he used to think aliens reside, blue like Kitagawa Daiichi, blue like Seijoh, blue like the horizons that evade him even as he chases them with blistering feet.

He wishes that were true.

Blue is the sea; the cresting of waves that glitter under the sun, the rising tides illuminated by the moon. Blue is beauty to be feared. He supposes that’s how most people might see him. On the court, bordered by thin white lines, he is blue. He is the soft landing of feet following a serve that smashes onto the ground, echoes. He is the silent stretch of arms positioned for a toss, one that will transform into a spike that blasts through any defense, ends a match. The notion is nice if not a little too romantic, and Oikawa isn’t one for romance. He plays the role of Prince Charming well - with his soft chocolate hair and bright chocolate eyes and sculpted arms brimming with homemade chocolates from his adoring subjects - and he is the boy you manifest into reality from fairy tales that speak of kisses that awaken, carpets that lift off into the night sky. But the truth is much more morbid, and he can play pretend all he wants but the clock will always strike twelve, and he is white, white, white again. White like sea foam that dissolves into nothing, washed away by the currents. The sea is loud, waves crashing onto sand, water rushing into his ears. It gurgles as it floods his lungs, and he doesn’t bother flailing his limbs, doesn’t struggle. There’s no need to fight; he’s lonely.

*

His story doesn’t matter. He’s just another boy. When he reaches up to touch his crown, it folds under his fingertips. It’s paper, but the pressure on his skull doesn’t ease, and that’s when he learns about the weight his thoughts can carry. They’re black, like ink, and with a single drop it permeates his entirety. Ink stains on a blank canvas, irreversible, permanent, and he is white no longer. 

*

Maybe that’s okay, because Ushijima is there. He always is.

*

Oikawa is not white, nor is he gold. But when Ushijima mouths at his skin, reverence in every exhale, every tug of teeth, he is painted purple. Purple like the accents of Ushijima's jacket, purple like the horizons within reach at twilight, purple like the violas that bloom in the winter. Purple, like royalty. Ushijima tends to his body with careful but intense deliberation, as if Oikawa were something precious, and he shivers. When the pressure builds, the lies start to sound more like truth and thin white lines begin to sever. Ushijima bites down, and then they're bursting open like the tiny blood vessels under his skin. He's purple, free, and he is king once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inspired by thin white lies by 5sos before i got carried away and it became an amalgamation of too many half-assed metaphors


End file.
